"Richard Noel" is Harry Thomas' slap at obscurantist
modernism in all its forms, resisting the lure of diffuse and the oblique for
the clipped, staccato version of Rudyard Kipling. The British
Poet would have furnished the fife and brass to accentuate and enliven the
rattatatat of the military drums. Thomas' poem is a rhythmic straight jacket,
the confined emotionalism of someone trying to keep their bleeding heart to a
steady, unexcited beat. If only if he'd actually let it all go to provide us
with something fiercer, more explosive than this soggy parody of Hemingway's
latherings about a Personal Code.
To finish the long profile**his grade depended on,the afternoon before**the surgery, alone,he worked late in the library.**I saw him typing away.On my desk were his ten pages**the first thing the next day. Over the years I, too,**have had hard things to face.But when did I once summon**such fortitude and grace.
It is admirable, one supposes, that a student gets their
homework turned in on time despite an affliction, but this tribute , with the
hushed bathos , seems very, very silly indeed. But there's that element of
"Gunga Din" that valorizes situations one does not know intimately
although one fees they should, and so attempt to compensate by inserting
themselves uselessly into the narrative, flagellating themselves for
theoretical cowardice in the face of someone who is merely doing the best they
can with the hand they've been dealt. Contra Susan Sontag, Thomas exoticizes
the sick, the afflicted with this sappy rhyme. There is something remarkable in
the attempt to overstate a point using such a crabbed rhetoric; the clichés and
the conventional wisdom toward the sick and the afflicted area boiled , chipped
and chiseled to their irreducible essences, leaving only a salty residue of
uninteresting thinking. There is ossification here, there is poet tasting, but
there is no poetry, such as we understand it. So what does one do to mend this
tendency of amateurs to compose and distribute these stanza'd insults to the
eyes? Exactly nothing. Nothing can be done to cure the lagging tastes of the
naive.
There is that large faction of the otherwise diminutive
poetry audience that likes its verse rhyming, rocking in a cadence that
suggests a three-legged clogging competition, stanzas that are morally coherent
and as comprehensible as a stack of pancakes, and the seldom discussed aspect
among the rest of us self-declared elites fighting back gag reflexes is that
this more or less a permanent state of affairs in this odd and contentious corner
of the literary world. For all the chatter some of us offer up about being
ecumenical. inclusive and appreciative of the broadness contemporary contains
with regards to style, aesthetics, and the subtly differentiated concerns each
of the coexisting schools collectively undertake to have their respective poems
achieve their results, many of us choke with contempt and despair over the
obvious if unacknowledged truth that doggerel, poesy, poet tasting and all the
loutish rest are permanent fixtures in the literary culture that thrives beyond
the ramparts. There are no mass conversions forthcoming when it comes to
convincing the rest of the poetry world that they’d be better off reading the
stronger stuff. Consumers know what they want to read, and the amateur poet,
not beholden to particular school of poetics or allegiances formed while they
were a graduate student, will write exactly how they see fit, daring, strange
enough, to write poems that make sense.